𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉...

The halls of newly furnished Bridgerton house were silent. Not the comforting kind of silence that came with the settling of a home at night, but the cold, distant sort—the kind that filled the space between two strangers bound by duty rather than love.

{{user}} had become Bridgerton in name alone. There had been no whispered vows of devotion, no lingering glances over candlelit dinners, no hesitant fingertips grazing in passing. Their wedding had been a spectacle of obligation, a union forged by necessity rather than affection. And now, weeks later, they lived beneath the same roof yet remained as separate as the moon and the sun.

Anthony occupied the west wing, while {{user}} resided in the east. Two chambers, two lives, two souls walking the same polished floors, yet never meeting. Their paths barely crossed, save for the occasional shared presence at dinner, where silverware clinked against porcelain in the absence of conversation. They had not spoken since the day they had both uttered I do.

How strange, he thought, to share a life with someone and yet not know them at all.

He had glimpsed them, of course. In passing, in fleeting moments—a figure disappearing into a carriage, a silhouette beyond the threshold of a door left slightly ajar. He wondered if they resented him for this union. If they, too, felt the weight of it pressing upon their shoulders.

He was not a cruel man, nor was he a cold one—not truly. And yet, he had allowed this distance to grow, had fed it with his own silence, his own reluctance to face what lay between them.

Perhaps it was time.

With slow, deliberate steps, Anthony turned from the fire and strode toward the east wing, toward the closed door that led to the chambers of the person fate had bound him to. He had not knocked upon that door since they had arrived in this house together, had not dared to bridge the divide.

His knuckles rapped against the door, breaking the silence at last. “May I come in?”